Getting It Sorted
by JealousOfTheMoon
Summary: In which Ed gets it sorted...sort of. The aftermath of the ice scene. Oneshot, PC Movieverse.


_I saw the movie last night. And I liked it very, very much, but I think I liked Edmund most of all. The portrayal of his character in particular sent me into a sort of bookworm version of fangirldom—that is, not that I thought he was "hawt" or anything but rather that I felt like more was revealed about his character without actually changing it—and I absolutely loved it!! It's a bit tricky to explain, especially since I don't want this author's note to be longer than the actual story, but…it was just very well done. PM me for more…because believe me, there is!_

_A word about the rating—it's K+ for a reason, because this is rather angsty and it uses the word "hell"—as a noun, not a curse, because I believe it does exist—but I don't normally use that word in stories. I thought it appropriate, but if anyone finds it inappropriate, please let me know per reasonable explanation. _

_By the way, my sense of the inadequacy of this story is quite overwhelming—I know it doesn't delve into all the different potential aspects the scene provides. In one sense, it's bursting with ideas while at the same time there's so many more! So if there's a particular aspect you wish I'd brought out, please realize that I probably wish I'd brought it out too—but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear specifically what that aspect was. Feedback is welcomed with open arms and fed and cared for luxuriously. Bear in mind: I've only seen the film once and I'm sure I've missed loads of things, so any suggestions/prompts/corrections are very welcome. _

_Thanks, & God bless. _

Getting It Sorted

_by JealousOfTheMoon_

The boy had a dying man's way of breathing: a ragged gasping in place of the actual drawing of breath. Edmund fell with more desperation than dignity to his knees on the floor, the sword slipping unnoticed from his shaking hands.

_Aslan. Help._

The ice had shattered, crashing down about his feet and bathing him in frozen splinters. He retrieved and wiped his wet sword on his trousers somewhat absently, a flood of memories returning—memories that had long been buried behind long years of a prosperous reign, of Narnian summers and Christmases and wind off the sea and his sisters' laughter and then the year of drudgery at home with Algebra and Latin.

_A dark cell, heavy iron chains, and one small boy's bitter thirst for power, revenge, fulfillment, the ability to inflict pain as pain had been received…_

That had been what kept him from chucking his sword at Peter's stupid head and then finishing Caspian off with his bare hands. He'd seen _himself_ in both their eyes—seen the look of one who's just been mocked and sent home a failure and desires raw _power_ and _ability_ to compensate for it, one who'll do anything to do _something_ that's worthy of recognition. So out came a sharp remark, cutting words instead of a cutting sword, and then he'd left—because he knew he'd seen in them what Aslan had seen in him, and Aslan had rescued him and _died_ for him—

He wasn't ready to do that much for Peter or Caspian, but Aslan had done it for him, and that feeling made him as cold and dry as the Witch's frozen bread.

A wave of nausea overtook him, and he bent even closer to the ground.

_Aslan. Help!_

He hadn't thought to stab the ice. It hadn't been…purposeful or brilliant or anything like that. _He_, Edmund Pevensie, was no hero. Truth be told, he'd been complete rubbish. His first instinct when he'd _Her—_seen _Her_ hand come from the ice—and known that that had been the same hand which had helped him from his first stumble in the snow in Narnia all the way to her frozen _hell—_all he'd known to do was to run. One minute he'd been staring at Caspian and Peter, temptation of what could be and guilt and disgust for what had been warring against each other within him, ripping him in two—he'd tasted Turkish Delight in his mouth, sickly sweet—he'd run, began his escape—stopped, looked around—he'd been _waiting_, but for what?—and then he'd seen _Him_ on the wall, behind the ice, and without thinking he'd run and plunged his sword into Her.

_She_ was gone. Where was _He?_

_Help me, Aslan!_

Then it came.

_I already have helped you, Child…_

That was it. He knew_._ It had been Aslan, with him all along. He hadn't seen been able to see him as Lucy had, but somehow he didn't mind as much. And he'd heard it—_child—_and while he hadn't been resisting it _quite_ as much as Peter, he knew he'd been here, trying to be the stern and noble king who'd defeated many men, and he'd neglected their calling.

Aslan had called them to come here _as children._ If he'd wanted them to fight this as they were back then, he would have.

_Aslan._

He wished Peter had figured things out sooner, even before that silly, insignificant brawl back at the train station, but as soon as the wish came he had a strong sense of its unfairness, because he himself didn't get it—and then, because he was finally ready to admit it, Edmund Pevensie slapped his hand down on the stone and said it to himself. _I can't sort it out!  
_

Something wet slid down his face, adding to the wetness already there: tears mingling with sweat and melting ice. He stopped, puzzled. They weren't tears of joy—things hurt too much for that—nor were they tears of sorrow—Aslan was too near for sorrow. With a startling jolt he realized they must be tears of relief—simple, honest relief—because one didn't need to know anything to be certain of anything. _I suppose realizing that one knows nothing is the surest way to know everything, or at least everything important—_

He blinked. Surely that didn't make any sense!

But then—he had time to not make sense. In the end, it was almost _good_, not making sense.

Aslan had it sorted.


End file.
